denied, and demanded that we should examine the letter itself.
"Oh, it is not worth the trouble, anybody might make a mistake in writing," she said, and it seemed to me she was rather confused.
"But I am sure that I have not done it. Do let me see the letter."
"Then we will say that I made a mistake in reading it, I do not mind," she said, and turned crimson. It was evident she had a reason for not showing the letter.
The irritation which, during the whole of this conversation, had been lurking within me because she had kept his letter so carefully, now burst out with a jealous suspicion that she had handled mine more carelessly and did not know where to find it. I was not sufficiently generous to spare her, though I knew well enough that even the most precious letter can easily be lost, especially when one travels.
"You cannot possibly be so lazy as that. Your blotter lies there on the table."
"No, it is not there," she answered, getting up. "Obstinate! I must take the trouble to go out in the passage to fetch my travelling-bag."
"No, I brought it in; it hangs there, near the door."
She looked in the bag.
"Then I suppose it is in the trunk," she remarked, with a shrug of her shoulder. "'Tant de bruit pour une omelette!'"
"Thanks!" I said, with an ironical intonation of which she took no notice, for she laughed gaily while she went down upon her knees and started to turn over the things in her trunk. To me this laughter sounded a little unnatural, as the situation was obviously painful.
